


Determination's Curse

by Faranae



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Brief Mention of Violence, Brief mention of sexual abuse, Crossover, Gen, Imprisonment, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 16:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6665701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faranae/pseuds/Faranae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The curse of the undead has been spreading at an alarming rate, but never has it been known to mark a child with the Darksign. </p>
<p>Alas, the Way of White has their orders: All undead are to be collected and imprisoned for the safety of mankind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Determination's Curse

**Author's Note:**

> I literally wrote this on the bus after a particularly vivid daydream. Please be forgiving if it's a bit odd. I just couldn't ignore the parallels and needed the idea down. Enjoy!

“Be quiet, surely you shall wake the child with your nonsense.”

“Wake the child? Woman, are you daft?” Voices trailed into the room, the door of wooden slats doing little to mute the angered tones. 

Mother. Father. Recognition seeped into their mind as they fought the sleep tugging at their eyes. Everything was numb. They were aware something was wrong with their head but aside from the dull buzz where skull met pillow and the burning on their back the child felt nothing. 

There was no light filtering through the window. Where had the day gone? Biting the inside of their cheek in an attempt to focus, the child gathered their thoughts. There had been a beast of a horse, eyes wild and fierce. They remembered thinking that the animal would please their father. That was this morning. Focus. Remember. 

Calm words and a rope of vine had led the beast to the square, villagers watching in awe as their little Frisk returned with yet another beast of the wilds, tame and gentle as if it were domesticated. The guards, relieved that the child had brought something as mild as a horse this time, ran to fetch their father. A horse had value. There had been excitement in their eyes. 

Frisk tried to raise a hand to brush the sleep from their eyes, but their arm would not respond. Neither would. Panic crept across their features before the numbness gave way to the feeling of restraints on their wrists. They were young, but intelligent. If they were restrained, there was surely some reason. Perhaps they had been thrashing in their sleep. 

They tensed at the thought. Thrashing. Of course. They remembered. 

The villagers had approached too quickly. The relationship between Frisk and the beast had been built on a delicate, simple trust. The horse, great and dark, had no such truce with these strange humans.

Frisk groaned at the buzzing in their skull, grinding their head into the rough pillow in an attempt to get comfortable. The beast had spooked, feeling betrayed as it angrily attempted to flee. Frisk remembered a flash of hooves, the taste of dirt, and then a deep darkness. 

“You cannot pretend you did not see it! We all saw the mark! The guard will have reported it by now!”

Father was outright yelling at Mother now. He never yelled at her. Frisk strained their ears to hear the woman's soft responses. 

“You cannot… We should just be glad that our child is alive and well. Let them recover and you will see. It is a gift-”

“That abomination is not our child! Our child died with their skull scattered across the cobbles, you foolish-”

Frisk flinched at the sound of flesh meeting flesh in a swift slap, echoing loudly in the sparse room. Their mother's voice was desperate, but steady. Their father was silent.

“My child is alive and well. They are. They must be.”

There was a sobbing, then. Low and rough, a Father in mourning, quickly joined by a second. Confusion clouded the child’s thoughts as they idly tested their bonds. The leather held without shifting. 

Frisk lay there in silence for what felt like an eternity, unable to make out the mumbled comforts their parents granted each other. After an age, with early dawn’s light threatening the darkness, there was a rap on the front door and their mother began openly sobbing once more. 

“I warned you, dearest. We will have another. We can try again. Perhaps, once this is all behind us.”

The door opened and sad salutations were exchanged as the sound of heavy armor shifting and clinking filled the quiet home. 

And Frisk knew the Way of White had come to take them away. 

-

“What in the name of the Allfather are you doing, you imbecile?”

Shifting fabric. Skin against skin. Light, filtering through the wagon’s door. 

“It isn't as if it's human, lad. We can do what we want with them. This is the end of the road anyways.”

Please. Please make him stop. 

“It’s a bloody child! What is wrong with you? Are you ill in the damn head?”

Thank you. Please. Thank you. 

“Fine, fine.”

Oh, praise the Gods.

Rough hands lifted them out into the day. Relief flooded their features at the warmth for an all-too brief moment. 

Around them, marring the landscape, were stone structures and hundreds of stone-bordered holes in the ground, iron grates swung open and waiting. Frisk snapped out of their stupor to grasp at the Cleric’s gauntlets, a whimper of fear escaping their lips. 

His eyes were cold and disgusted as he held them over the opening. 

There was no escaping this fate. 

Frisk couldn't even muster the effort to scream as they fell. 

-

Frisk awoke with a start, clutching their rags as close to their body as they could manage. 

They no longer felt the cold, in the traditional sense, but the rags were a strangely human comfort as they rubbed their arms to wake themselves further from the nightmare. 

Sleep was something that happened often, even though it wasn't necessary. They did anyways, the dreams and nightmares a welcome break from the foul stench of their cell. They tried not to think that the growing smell was likely their own. 

They wrinkled their nose, peering through the crumbling ceiling high above, gate long gone, to the cloudy sky above. They had lost track of the years, escaping into their own head to pass the time. 

Seeing the freedom of the sky so close yet so far had helped immensely. They managed, somehow, to hang on to what little humanity they had left. The stars were a map to freedom, each night a chance to memorize their patterns. 

The walls had begun to decay and crumble. 

The sounds of anguish echoing through the halls gave way to the rumbles and screams of demons. 

Frisk no longer knew what was reality and what was a daydream. Perhaps it was better that way. The undead they could see from their cell door had all gone thoroughly insane and feral. Some had even escaped, and attempted to attack them through the bars. Thankfully, by blessing and curse both, their cell had remained mostly intact through the decay and provided a perverse protection. Even now, Frisk silently thanked the great gate for keeping a barrier between them and the feral undead. The hollows. 

Frisk glanced through the grate, wondering if letting go of their own sanity would be a blessing. A million times they had considered it, and a million times they had thought better, grasping at a fading memory or thoughts of escape. Thoughts not of home, but of a new home. A place created by them, for them, to be safe and sheltered yet free. 

Perhaps losing their mind would be the ultimate freedom. Their vision tinged black, a pulsing rush filling their ears as they looked longingly down the hall. 

A rustling above them snapped them from their daydream, the colors around them brightening once again as curiosity took hold. Peering through the hole in their cell they tried to identify the new sound among the monotony. 

They scrambled back and away from the hole as a corpse was suddenly shoved over the edge, their voice cracking from disuse as they shouted in surprise. 

A hand gripped the stone to brace itself as a skeletal figure shrouded in tattered blue armor leaned over the edge, glancing between them and the corpse. Nodding knowingly to itself, the skeleton left the edge and continued on its way as the child tried to summon the words to call out to it. 

Frisk shuddered and scratched over their shoulder. 

They knew the dull burning they felt was the Darksign, the magical brand of the undead that marked them as it did every hollow they had seen outside their cell. It was itching. Had it itched before? They couldn't remember. But the more they thought about the corpse in front of them the more the mark hissed and itched. 

Frisk peeled themselves away from the wall and prodded the corpse curiously. There, jostled from the corpse due to the fall, was an aged key.

As they reached a shaking hand to grasp the cold metal, the Darksign flared and they were filled with what could only be described as determination.

**Author's Note:**

> Once I'm through with school this may become a series if there is enough interest. We will see!


End file.
